April 13, 2016

If you go to the show, as my pal Helen did, you're confronted with this list of official cocktails. Clearly, the Founder's Fizz is the best option, but the list is kind of uninspiring. (Sierra Mist? Sour apple liqueur? Jack Daniel's for a Manhattan?) You can do better, even if you don't tip as well as Amy Schumer.

This got me thinking about Revolutionary-era drinks, and what kinds of things Alexander Hamilton himself and his cohorts may have enjoyed. And drink they did: in 1790, the average American drank about thirty-four gallons of beer or cider, a gallon of wine, and five gallons of distilled spirits. By 1830, average annual alcohol consumption in America for every man, woman, and child over the age of 15 was about seven gallons of pure alcohol – the equivalent of ninety bottles of 80-proof liquor, or about four shots per person per day – more triple the current rate of alcohol consumption. (Dodgy water supplies often meant that beer or other alcoholic beverages were safer to drink.) Everyone in colonial America was likely at the very least slightly buzzed, all of the time.

John Hancock made most of his fortune by importing smuggling molasses, rum, tea, tobacco, and Madeira to the colonies. In June 1768, British customs officials seized his sloop Liberty because he paid duty on 25 casks of Madeira, while the ship could hold four times as many. The Sons of Liberty incited an angry mob which rioted in Boston, burned a customs official's boat, and called for a boycott of British products. Hancock was fined £9000 (or more than $1.9 million today) and had to forfeit his ship, but he retained John Adams as counsel and the charges were eventually dropped for lack of evidence.

Yes, thatJohn Adams. He drank hard cider before breakfast and three glasses of Madeira every night before bed. In the difficult summer of 1777 (so difficult that he noted that punch was up to twenty shillings a bowl), he wrote to Abigail that "whiskey is used here instead of rum, and I don't see but it is just as good."

Martha Washington, who was regarded as the consummate hostess, traveled to be with George at each of the Continental Army's winter encampments, including the one at Morristown, NJ during the harsh winter of 1779-80. The officers held fancy-dress dances on February 23, March 1 and April 24, 1780. Washington and 34 other officers ponied up $400 each for these parties, and of course our hero A. Ham met Elizabeth Schuyler that winter. (thoseletters!) Martha Washington records a good recipe for rum punch in her diaries, though we don't know if it was served during these parties.

I couldn't dig up any hard information on Hamilton's drinking activities, and I don't get the sense he was much of a drinker. Indeed, in Federalist No. 12, he advocated a tax on spirits, and said that if that tax "should tend to diminish the consumption of it, such an effect would be equally favorable to the agriculture, to the economy, to the morals, and to the health of the society. There is, perhaps, nothing so much a subject of national extravagance as these spirits." This proposed tax was enacted as the Distilled Spirits Tax of 1791, which sparked the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794.

It is conjectured, that the price of this precious liquor will soon rise at Claverack, since a certain candidate has placed in his account of Loss and Gain, the following items", then going on to list "720 rum grogs, 17 brandy ditto, 32 gin-slings, 411 glasses bitters, 25 glasses cock-tail," and "My Election" under the "Loss" column, with "NOTHING" under "Gain." Ouch. All that booze spent in electioneering, and the poor Democratic-Republican candidate couldn't win.

Not content to just rub it in once, the next issue of The Balancefeatured a letter to the editor (well, at least a letter. I wonder if Harry Croswell, the editor, wrote it himself, given the tone. It feels like Croswell's showing off, or asking himself a question so he could publish the answer) asking what in the world was meant by "cocktail":

Sir, I observe in your paper of the 6th instant, in the account of a democratic candidate for a seat in the legislature, marked under the head of Loss, 25 do. cock-tail. Will you be so obliging as to inform me what is meant by this species of refreshment? Though a stranger to you, I believe, from your general character, you will not suppose this request to be impertinent. I have heard of a jorum, of phlegm-cutter and fog driver, of wetting the whistle, of moistening the clay, of a fillip, a spur in the head, quenching a spark in the throat, of flip &c, but never in my life, though I have lived a good many years, did I hear of cock tail before. Is it peculiar to a part of this country? Or is it a late invention? Is the name expressive of the effect which the drink has on a particular part of the body? Or does it signify that the democrats who take the potion are turned topsyturvy, and have their heads where their tails should be? I should think the latter to be the real solution; but am unwilling to determine finally until I receive all the information in my power. At the beginning of the revolution, a physician publicly recommended the moss which grew on a tree as a substitute for tea. He found on experiment, that it had more of a stimulating quality than he approved; and therefore, he afterwards as publicly denounced it. Whatever cock tail is, it may be properly administered only at certain times and to certain constitutions. A few years ago, when the democrats were bawling for Jefferson and Clinton, one of the polls was held in the city of New York at a place where ice-cream was sold. Their temperament then was remarkably adust and bilious. Something was necessary to cool them. Now when they are sunk into rigidity, it might be equally necessary, by cock-tail to warm and rouse them. I hope you will construe nothing that I have said as disrespectful. I read your paper with great pleasure and wish it the most extensive circulation. Whether you answer my inquiry or not, I shall still remain, Yours, A SUBSCRIBER

Did you catch the gibes aimed at "democrats" and at Jefferson and [DeWitt] Clinton? The editor, Harry Croswell, responded immediately below this letter:

[As I make it a point, never to publish anything (under my editorial head) but which I can explain, I shall not hesitate to gratify the curiosity of my inquisitive correspondent:– Cock tail, then, is a stimulating liquor, composed of Spirits of any kind, sugar, water and bitters–it is vulgarly called bittered sling, and is supposed to be an excellent electioneering potion inasmuch as it renders the heart stout and bold, at the same time that it fuddles the head. It is said also, to be of great use to a democratic candidate: because, a person having swallowed a glass of it, is ready to swallow any thing else. Edit. Bal.]

Wow. So not only does the editor neatly define the word we're most interested in here, he manages to smack around his political opponents with some style at the same time.

Another fun tidbit or three: Harry Croswell was a staunch Federalist who started editing the Balance in 1801 when he moved to Hudson. When rival editor and Jeffersonian Charles Holt started up the fiercely Democratic-Republican Hudson Bee the next year (Jefferson was a paying subscriber), Croswell responded by starting a small paper ("printed in the Garret of The Balance") called "The Wasp", "because a wasp often stings a bee." The September 9, 1802 issue of the Wasp got Croswell in some trouble, after he reported a charge from the New York Post (don't forget who founded that paper) that Jefferson had paid fellow Virginian and scandalmonger James Thompson Callender -- a nasty character who had earlier leaked the story of Hamilton's affair with Maria Reynolds -- to attack the Adams Administration and impugn the late George Washington. The New York attorney general, who Croswell also attacked in the same issue of the Wasp, prosecuted him on libel and sedition charges, and Croswell was convicted of publishing the statements. (Croswell was represented pro bono by, among others, William P. Van Ness...who would later serve as Burr's second for his duel with Hamilton.) For his appeal, Croswell was represented by none but our hero A. Ham, who delivered such a powerful exhortation that truth was an absolute defense to a libel claim that the principle was written into New York state law and the New York Constitution, and remains a bedrock principle of First Amendment law.)

History is so cool.

But how best to commemorate his life in liquid form? Especially if you don't want to serve up Brandy Alexander Hamiltons? I really liked the sound of the "My Shot" cocktail from Good Food Stories. It sounds wonderful, and it's made up of spirits that were popular during his era: applejack (which one of Washington's New Jersey-based soldiers Robert Laird distilled, and whose ancestors still make Laird's Applejack), pimento dram, whiskey, rum, and cider (from the Aaron Burr Cidery.) Mmmmm. Good Food Stories also posted a Schuyler Sisters cocktail, with ingredients chosen to reflect the personalities of the three sisters depicted in the show. (!) You could even drink them out of dueling shot glasses.

For the release yesterday of the #Hamiltome (aka Lin-Manuel Miranda's new book "Hamilton: The Revolution"), the good people at my excellent local independent bookstore, the Astoria Bookshop, asked me to come up with an appropriate and historically accurate tipple for their party. After some research, I came up with "Whiskey Rebellion Punch", an update of Jerry Thomas's "Canadian Punch" from the 1862 edition of "How To Mix Drinks", the first bartending book published in the United States. As always with old recipes, and especially pre-Prohibition ones, and even more so with Punch, I let David Wondrich's sagacity and advice be my guide.

Whiskey Rebellion Punch

3 bottles 100-proof rye whiskey (I used Rittenhouse. If you have cask-strength whiskey, go with the proportions of whiskey and water given above.)

Slice the pineapple and the lemons thinly, and place them in a pot with the spirits. Cover and let infuse overnight (without squeezing the fruit.) Make a simple syrup with 12 oz. sugar and 12 oz. water (which will result in about 20 oz. of the 1:1 syrup) and set aside. (If you need to transport it, take the fruit out with a slotted spoon and put it in a quart-size food storage bag, and bottle the infused spirits in the bottles you emptied.) To serve, mix the fruit, the infused spirits, the simple syrup, and the seltzer together, and slip in a large ice block. Garnish each serving with a piece of the pineapple and a slice of lemon, and do not throw away your shot.

May 11, 2015

SF Girl By Bay hosted a cocktail contest a couple months back, along with Women & Whiskies, and we thought we'd try our hand at an original recipe. The contest showcased Glen Grant's The Major's Reserve single-malt Scotch, which is an interesting ingredient to work with. You don't see too many Scotch cocktails, typically; the peaty, smoky maltiness and heathery floral flavors characterizing Scotch can get lost in some drinks, and I typically drink my single malts neat or with a dram of spring water. (If I were to make a list of Scotch cocktails that spring to mind, I'd reel off the Rusty Nail, the Rob Roy, the Penicillin, the Blood and Sand...and then I'd have to stop and think for a while.)

We tried several different directions for this one, but we arrived at one that was kind of a cross between a Rob Roy (itself a Scotch Manhattan) and an Improved Whiskey Cocktail. Aromatic, with layers of flavor, this concoction pulls out the apple and vanilla notes from the single malt whisky.

Where'd My Glasgow?

2oz. Glen Grant The Major's Reserve single-malt Scotch whisky

1/2 oz. Noilly Prat sweet vermouth

2 tsp Maraschino liqueur (we used Maraska)

dash Bittercube cherry bark vanilla bitters

Stir and strain into a double Old-Fashioned glass with an ice ball, and garnish with a cocktail cherry.

September 17, 2014

All of us cocktailians -- and drinkers generally -- have a common hero. More than Harry Craddock, or Jimmy Russell, or Donn Beach, or even Jerry Thomas. No, who we really should bow down to is good ol' Ethyl Alcohol, which lubricates social situations, makes us feel great if we use it right, and has even saved our lives.

That's one of the big points that Anthony Caporale makes in his Off-Off-Broadway show The Imbible: A Spirited History of Drinking, now playing Friday nights through October 3 at the Huron Club at the SoHo Playhouse. The production was mounted for the New York Fringe Festival, and it was one of 13 successful plays chosen out of 220 or so for an additional run as part of the FringeNYC Encore Series. I went this past Friday night and had a grand time. Imagine a lecture on the 10,000-year history of alcohol...but with jokes, callouts to audience members, live demos, visual aids, original songs, goofy costumes, and The Backwaiters -- a trio of a cappella singer/actors who contribute harmonies in styles from barbershop to disco. It's rollicking, charming, and delivers a ton of information on my favorite subject without taking itself seriously, so it all adds up to an enormously enjoyable evening out. It's a fantastic value, too -- for your $21 ticket you get three cocktails thrown in as well. (Where else can you get three drinks for $21 in SoHo on a Friday night, to say nothing of the history lesson and a show?) The history is solid, and so's the entertainment.

Cocktailians: You have theater experience in your background -- what made you think of combining theater and booze?

Anthony Caporale: It's funny because the theater part predates the booze parts. I started acting when I was eight years old. I always tell people the reason I got into bartending was because I was acting...I had a mechanical engineering degree that I wasn't thrilled to use, and started out working in a restaurant, and got behind the bar after a month or so. I always tell people that I felt like from that point on, it was a Broadway play that I could perform every night -- and I only had to audition once to get cast. For me, that's what bartending has always been about. That two-month summer job turned into a lifetime of bartending full-time, even when I was working in engineering.

What I really enjoy is teaching and training people. I got into helping people open restaurants: I've opened probably close to two dozen restaurants, from mom & pop places up to $14 million operations like [Brinker International's] Maggiano's. The longer I spend in this field, the more I see that you really have to view the whole thing as entertainment. The biggest companies -- the Disneys, the TGI Friday's, et cetera -- they all get that the experience they're delivering is entertainment, but the product can vary. It can be food, movies, whatever...but they all see that what people want is the entertainment.

I'm the national brand ambassador for Drambuie, and when I started going around the country and doing lectures, what I realized was that the best presentations were the most theatrical, when I incorporated comedy and made it high-energy. I've been involved in theater companies in New York for 15 years or so, and started a theater company a couple years ago focusing on new plays. A friend who is a theater producer saw my Manhattan Cocktail Classic presentation and said, "Anthony, I think you have a show here." Everybody wants to know as much as they can about cocktails and spirits, and so four years later, my associate producer and I tried to get it into the Fringe Festival this year. We spent three insane months producing two full-length shows for the Fringe Festival, and I've been absolutely blown away by peoples' reaction. We've sold out every show so far, and we're looking at our eighth straight sold-out show. We got four stars in Time Out, our photo on the cover of the New York Times Arts section -- I just about fell over.

May 16, 2014

I used to never order an Old-Fashioned when going out to a bar, because I never knew what I'd get -- an inch-thick paste of smashed fruit goo at the bottom? A glass brimming with seltzer? (or worse, Sprite?) -- and that was kind of like the Bad Old Days of drinks literature, when you had to sift through umpteen badly-edited lists of crummy recipes to find one or two books that rose above the Mr. Boston standard. Nowadays, of course, with the explosion of quality bars and general heightened interest in all things cocktailian these days, there are plenty of places where I feel comfortable walking in and confidently ordering an Old-Fashioned, knowing that I'll get a well-made, tasty drink. Similarly, there's a myriad of interesting cocktail books around, and it's been fascinating to watch them go from catchall collections of recipes to reprints of classics to more intensely specialized books narrowly focusing on a particular historical period, a bar, a locale, a category of drinks, or even a particular drink itself.

Robert Simonson's "The Old-Fashioned: The Story of the World's First Classic Cocktail, with Recipes & Lore" (Ten Speed, $18.99), is one of the latter, of course. It delves deeply into the history of the titular drink, and presents dozens of variations. Simonson's writing is precise and poetic: "When properly made according to its original specifications, the Old-Fashioned's amber glow is no longer obscured by phosphorescent refugees from the produce department." The first section of the book is a well-observed history of how the drink we know as the Old-Fashioned evolved. That was one of my first surprises, as I'd always thought the Old-Fashioned was a relic from the nineteenth century (Simonson describes it as "the primordial cocktail"), unchanged since the days of Jerry Thomas. Rather, it evolved, slowly and incrementally, into what we expect today. Did you know that the original garnish for the drink was a miniature spoon, or that it was originally consumed as a fast morning pick-me-up?

Simonson writes for the New York Times, which has dubbed him "Our Man in the Liquor-Soaked Trenches." In the book, he loads us up with colorful stories and quotes from tons of sources to spin his yarns, including some now-forgotten bar guides and old newspapers from Brooklyn, Chicago, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania, and one admirably cranky letter to the Times in 1936. He considers various claims to the title of the drink's inventor, and dismisses Col. Jim Gray's (who added nutmeg, didn't have bitters, and shook the drink) and the Pendennis Club's (which is thinly sourced and historically problematic.) And he takes us through the Fruit Wars -- the rise and fall of the orange wheel/cherries/pineapple (!) garnish and what various bartenders did with them. (A few years ago, I ordered an Old-Fashioned before dinner at Mandina's. The waiter immediately asked me the question "With or without the garbage?") In sidebars, Simonson also addresses the Mad Men effect (I don't love how Don Draper mixes his drink) and the pecularity that is the Wisconsin-styleBrandy Old-Fashioned, which as a Wisconsinite himself he's eminently qualified to do.

A brief note on gear and technique follows, and then we're on to the recipes. After the standard and historical recipes which were described in the first section, we move on to the many creative variations on the drink. Simonson observes that the Old-Fashioned lends itself especially well to tinkering, especially with all the kinds of sweeteners, flavored syrups, and bitters available these days. Don Lee's groundbreaking bacon-infused Benton's Old-Fashioned from PDT is included, as is Phil Ward's magical Oaxaca Old-Fashioned from Death & Co. (And I can't wait to try the Clint Eastwood by Mike Ryan from Chicago's Violet Hour, Chris Hannah's Rebennack from the French 75 in New Orleans, or the New Ceremony from Tonia Guffey at Dram in Brooklyn; they all look fantastic.) Simonson even offers up a couple recipes of his own devising, including a bourbon-and-Perique Old-Fashioned that is yet another reason I want to get my hands on a couple bottles of that stuff.

The book is well-designed, too, with many pages of absolutely gorgeous photography (by Daniel Krieger) of the drinks, equipment, and bartenders, taken in bars around New York. I've been carrying around the book for the past couple of days while I write this review, and the cover shot makes my mouth water. I also like the comfortable dimensions (8" x 5 1/2") and jacketless hardback approach. There's a good and useful index, the endpapers are marbled, and the whole package just feels solid, attractive, and well thought out. I found a couple copy-editing nitpicks (and the page for the Rum Old-Fashioned specifies English Harbour rum and a lime twist, while the photo depicts El Dorado 12 and an orange), but they're exceedingly minor and don't detract from the book.

All in all, this is a great look at "the grandfather of them all." The Old-Fashioned is definitely worthy of a high-quality book exploring its history, continuing significance, and future, and that book has arrived.

(Thanks to Ten Speed Press and Robert Simonson for sending me a review copy.)

We didn't hit all 28 places, as that would be a little much for one evening, but we started downstairs at Silvana, where we listened to live jazz and had Kali's Salvation, redolent of fresh sage and a splash of vinegar for acid. We continued on to The Cecil (owned by former TimeWarner chairman and current LA Clippers CEODick Parsons), where I enjoyed Asa Scott's Bam Bam (similar to a Bramble, with rhubarb simple syrup and muddled blackberries) and Shedrick Pelt's rich, complex Destiny's Sunset (with sparkling wine, Rothman & Winter Orchard Cherry, and lime) and some spectacular mac 'n' cheese. We toddled on to Corner Social for a bright-red, sweet Mayday, and then headed to the famous Red Rooster for one of Kamal & Kia's Sag Harbor Hills -- like a Southside with an unusual splash of Benedictine! -- and some fine desserts. (It was fun to meet owner Marcus Samuelsson, too, and poke our heads into Ginny's Supper Club downstairs to see T.S. Monk recording a live album.) We wound up at La Bodega 47 Social Club for a nightcap of Johnathan Franco's Suga Momma, a sweet strawberry-and-honey sour.

What I found most interesting about the evening -- aside from the drinks -- was learning just how vibrant the cocktail scene in Harlem is, and it's a neighborhood that's vastly undercovered by food and beverage media. (I'll resolve to do my part in fixing this.) Everyone we met, from owners to bartenders, welcomed us warmly -- which isn't always a given at some of the hipper spots downtown -- and I'm looking forward to my next visit.

Which is what brings us to this post. Slate contributed its idea for substitutions: "Lemons. Use lemons. Come on, people, this isn't rocket science", going on to note that "Lemon juice and zest work well in place of their lime counterparts in virtually every recipe." So that's it, right? End of discussion, game over, and why are we bothering to suss this out? The post drew lots of comments (including from your humble correspondent, who Slate quoted in their followup) pointing out that actually, lemons and limes aren't exactly the same thing, and taste different. Slate then responded with a cute video in which blindfolded staff members can successfully distinguish limes and lemons 74% of the time. No word if they're backing away from L.V. Anderson's original assertion that lemons were just fine in everything usually requiring limes.

But yeah, surely everybody can tell the difference when you're sucking on a wedge of something sour -- or at least 74% of the Slate staff can -- but that's not how we typically use citrus. We zest it, or we use the juice mixed in with other things. And as cocktailians, we decided to conduct our own tests: can you tell the difference between limes and lemons in a drink? And up against various substitutes for fresh limes, can you distinguish the real thing, and which do you prefer?

The Method

I enlisted Cocktailians co-author Tony Hightower and frequent Cocktailians Guest Star Joanna Scutts in the single-blind experiment. I made nineteen different half-size portions of five different cocktails, all chosen because they're sours that really showcase the interplay between a different spirit, a sweetener, and the citrus. Three of the cocktails chosen classically use lime, and two classically use lemon. Four of the five use different base spirits from one another (and the fifth uses a combination of aged spirits, so it's a different animal anyway.) I used commonly-accepted proportions for each recipe, straight out of the Museum of the American Cocktail's recipe guide, from Robert Hess and Anistatia Miller. And I presented all the drinks up, without garnish, giving the citrus no place to hide.

For the lemon cocktails, I made versions with lemon juice and lime juice, and asked Tony and Jo to see if they could tell the difference, and if so, which one they preferred. For the lime cocktails, I did the same, but also made versions using three substitutes for lime juice. I mixed all the cocktails in another room, and Tony and Jo didn't know which was which. (I also tasted the cocktails and recorded my preferences, but since I'd recorded which drink was in which glass, it wasn't a blind test for me like it was for them.) And to correct for any variations with individual fruit, I juiced six large limes and six large lemons and combined each fruit's juice in a nonreactive measuring cup. We had lots of seltzer in between each drink to keep our palates nice and cleansed.

Were I to try this again, I'd further complicate it by also trying some sort of vinegar or shrub as an acid, as well as key limes, Meyer lemons, a solution of straight citric acid, Employees Only's kaffir-leaf lime cordial, and also by trying some lightly aged lime juice.

The Results

Prior to making the drinks, I had Tony and Jo close their eyes, and handed them each identically cut wedges of lime and lemon and asked them to determine which was which. They tasted and both of them could correctly identify them.

We started our drinks with one of the classic lime cocktails, the Daiquiri. With sugar as the only sweetener and no flavor from anything else besides the rum, the citrus really has to shine in this one. The five drinks were very different, and if you couldn't tell the difference, you really should be drinking one of those frozen grain-alcohol "Daiquiris" sold on Bourbon Street. Tony and Jo both declared the real lime their favorite. Tony's second-favorite was the Rose's Daiquiri, and Jo's second-favorite was the lemon. Jo observed that the lemon Daiquiri was a less-integrated drink than the lime, and that it abruptly pivoted from sweet to sour. Both described the Sicilia plastic lime drink as off-puttting, and the Daiquiri made from acid phosphate was just bad, with an aroma and flavor described as "old bread", "plastic-y", and "chemistry set."

The Aviation was next, and because it was a lemon cocktail, I just made versions with lemon and lime juice. We could instantly tell the difference, and all agreed that the lemon version was superior to the lime.

For the Margarita, the fresh-squeezed citrus once again beat out all the substitutes. The real lime Margarita was Jo's favorite and Tony's second-favorite, and those choices were reversed with the lemon Margarita. The acid phosphate Margarita was "horrible", the Rose's was described as "not awful" and "fake-tasting", and the Sicilia plastic-lime drink was described as tasting "a little medicinal, but not bad", and was Tony and Jo's third-favorite each. We were surprised that the Margarita, probably the cocktail that most people would name if you asked them to come up with a drink involving lime, worked so well with a lemon. And that if you weren't tasting them side-by-side, if you got a lemon Margarita at a bar (or a plastic-lime Margarita at a lower-end bar), you might not send them back.

The Mai Tai's results were similar to the Margarita's: the real lime was Tony's first choice and Jo's second, while the real lemon was Jo's first choice and Tony's second. Jo observed that she quite liked the acid phosphate Mai Tai, but that the lack of citrus flavor made the drink more almondy, with the orgeat's flavor coming through much more cleanly. Tony agreed, pointing out that the Rose's Mai Tai was very orgeat-forward, and the lime flavor just disappeared into the drink. All agreed that the Sicilia plastic-lime Mai Tai was flatter, with a chemical finish, and not nearly as much depth as the other drinks. "It's all in the nose," Tony noted.

And with the Whiskey Sour, lemon was the clear favorite. The lime version was described as "spiky, angular, all knees and elbows", while lemon was "smoother, fuller, better integrated into the drink." There's a reason bourbon and lemons are such a great combination.

Conclusions

Well, there's absolutely a discernible difference between lemons and limes, under almost any conditions. 74% of Slate staffers agree, and so did our single-blind tasting panel, pitilessly stacking them up against each other. When it came to drinks, fresh citrus was head and shoulders above the other alternatives, but somewhat to our surprise, lemon could work well in some lime-focused drinks even if it was identifiably different from the original. (Check the chart and writeup at point #3 of this Serious Eats: Drinks article, on perceptions of sourness with differing sugar levels.) And, while you can sometimes substitute lemon for lime, you go the other way and put lime in lemon drinks at your peril.

My suggestion to cocktail bars? Rather than fake the funk, perhaps concentrate on more of the brown-bitter-and-stirred type drinks and minimize the sours for the time being. Or, you could offer a "Cartel Margarita" made with lemon, and explain the reasons for the shortage while presenting a different variation on a classic.